


King of Heroes

by thimble



Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Character Study, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:34:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: The dreams tell him that there will come someone with might equal to his own, a savior for whom there is no other purpose. At this, he laughs; what on earth would he need saving from?In which every legend, at its core, is a story about loss.





	King of Heroes

His birth surpasses definition, his very existence the origin of myth. No one before him has ever been more suited to kingship, and all that will come after him will be naught but a pale imitation of his glory. He was created to be the meeting between the gods and humanity—the one who possesses the best of both worlds, and the one best suited to discern what either side lacks. There lives no creature more magnificent, no king more just, no child more pure. His people set him atop a pedestal, and though the height is great he glances down at the adoring crowd and feels not an inkling of fear.

 

* * *

 

The pedestal, once an example of his benevolence, turns into a symbol of what it is that sets him apart from the rest. Neither human nor divine, he begins to understand his duty. To be the adjudicator of all means surpassing the gods and subjugating mankind; it means amassing every treasure, holding the key to each truth. The future can be seen to its conclusion by none other than he who would outlive both deities and mortals. He looks to the heavens, and, rather than cower in the wake of its expanse, decides to claim every constellation for himself.

 

* * *

  
  
Even he is not exempt from dreaming, sung to sleep by moonlight. But not all of them are peaceful: in one, a burning star hurtles straight into his waiting arms, and in another, he caresses an ax as its edge buries into his throat. His mother, wiser in the language of dreams, tells him that they are a promise. A promise—a threat—that there will come someone with might equal to his own, a savior for whom there is no other purpose. At this, he laughs; what on earth would he need saving from?

 

* * *

  
  
The threat—the prophecy—is fulfilled when the being from his dreams steps foot in his temple, simultaneously ethereal and unholy. The first strike follows on the trail of a smile, but he does not stay on the defensive for long. Each blow brings with it the knowledge that he will not survive if he continues to fight with half a heart. Reluctantly is how he draws out the first weapon, and furiously is how he continues to summon his treasures until anger turns to excitement, and excitement turns to euphoria. Who could have known that the joys of battle cannot be fully grasped with those lesser than he? It seems so obvious now, with his vault emptied and the stranger only a fraction of what they arrived with. Again, he laughs, but this time someone else laughs with him. Enkidu is their name; regret is what they ask if he feels, having spent so much of his beloveds.

“Never,” he answers, “if it is someone who deserves them.”

 

* * *

  
  
A tyrant he may be, a king is still what he is, and there would be no kings without kingdoms, and no kingdoms if the king thought it above him to protect them. To ensure that Uruk remains in the future he feels entitled to seeing, he must purge the world of its evils. Enkidu does more than join him on his journeys; they swear to him their loyalty, their place by his side as his tool. At this, he frowns.

“I would not allow a tool to walk beside me,” he says, resolute. “But I would allow a friend.”

 

* * *

  
  
A friend is what Enkidu has always been, the moment their eyes met his and saved him from his isolation. But they become something else, something more, in moments that are quiet and kept to themselves. In one such moment, Enkidu leans down, eyes bright and smile even brighter, their hair a curtain that hides their shared secret. History will not remember that they had a mouth like daylight, and that the King of Heroes once chased after those lips, a flower desperate for the sun.

 

* * *

  
  
Grandeur is measured in power and in gold, and his are beyond compare. The gods can no longer ignore him, and a goddess, discontent with that, wishes to own him. His rejection of her begets a beast, bringing ruin upon the land and suffering upon his people. Once more, he and Enkidu fight, not against each other but together, and no victory has ever been more certain than this.

Uruk rejoices.

 

* * *

  
  
Up until then, his defiance has never wrought consequence, but it comes soon enough. For twelve days and twelve nights, Enkidu bears the punishment of the gods, one that he should have received instead. Tenderly, he holds them in his arms, as one would let a star burn him, an ax bury into his throat. Softly, they tell him that the loss of a single treasure should not prompt the sight of his tears. He has so many more in his possession, after all.

Amidst the tears that fall nevertheless, he says, “you are the only one who deserves them, and you will always be the only one. No one before you has ever come close, and all after you will be naught but the shadow you leave behind.”

But not even a promise from a king can halt the inevitable, and Enkidu crumbles until they’re nothing more than dust on his hands.

All too akin to a human, Gilgamesh mourns.

 

* * *

 

Grief takes him captive, leading him to the wilderness. He spends his days in search of something—anything—that would make him immortal. Of all the battles he’s won, of all the beasts he’d defeated, it takes the loss of Enkidu for him to realize that death would not happen only to other people. If it had taken his equal so straightforwardly, his own demise is surely ahead of him. And who would watch over humanity then, and oversee its eventual end? For the first time, there seems nothing to conquer, and everything to fear.

 

* * *

  
  
In the realm of the dead, he’s pointed in the direction of what he’s been looking for. The herb contains the cure to mortality, the cheat to death. Enkidu would not have to have died in vain if he could live on in their stead. But as easy as it was to obtain, easier still is having it taken away. The serpent did not have the decency to stay and be slain, so he is left only with his laughter: at the absurdity of his predicament, at the transience of existence. Everything, even he, must turn to dust as Enkidu had, significant only in other people’s memories.

 

* * *

  
  
It cannot be determined if Uruk is worse or better off upon his return, though it remains prosperous until he, too, passes away like all beings are wont to do.

 

* * *

 

Millennia later, he’s brought back by the skin shed by the same serpent who’d stolen eternity from him. Little about the situation pleases him, from his dull excuse for a master to the state of the humanity he’d so longed to preserve. But the Grail, singular among his treasures, symbolizes a promise—a threat—to restore the world to something worth ruling over. War, it seems, is not through with him yet.

 

* * *

  
  
Kotomine Kirei is singular among humans in that he desires nothing, or so he says. Gilgamesh, who has tasted every pleasure there ever was, knows better. What happens between them is not a corruption as much as it is an invitation to dance, and to his delight Kirei even takes the lead, donning betrayal as effortlessly as he would a rosary. 

 

Rider is strong, not only in physical might but in how he inspires loyalty from both his subjects his past life and his master in this one. Rider is also a fool; how else can he describe someone who proposes to be his equal—his friend?

 

Saber, on the other hand, is weak despite her bold words, despite even the sword she wields. He declares that splendor will only be hers if she agrees to become part of his treasury, an offer only a fool would refuse.

 

* * *

  
  
In the ensuing battle the Grail is destroyed, its filth gifting him with a mortal body. Appetite returns to him—for wine and for sovereignty. Perhaps this world is not lost, with him waiting in the wings as its rightful king.

 

* * *

  
  
Ten years are spent among humanity, learning the ways of the common people, biding his time until the next Holy Grail War, all in a pale imitation of his former glory.

 


End file.
